Terracotta Treasure Trove

When we reached Bishnupur it was almost noon and ‘the land of red soil’ had turned copper under the blazing midday sun. A mere 15-minute rickshaw ride to our hotel through the sweltering streets and I was already regretting my decision.  May was certainly not the best timeto visit this part of Bengal. Also, the town looked nothing like the fabled land lined with exquisite terracotta temples—all I could see were concrete jungles and huge hoardings of Baluchari sarees.

However, the manager of the hotel had booked us a rickshaw, whichhappened to be the main mode of transport in the town, for local sightseeing and at around 2 pm we started for Shyam Bandh and on the itinerary were four temples— Lalji, Radhey Shyam, Keshto Raya and Shyam Rai. Both Keshta Raya and Shyam Rai temples were ticketed monuments but our rickshawala had already purchased it for us from the ASI counter at Raashmancha.

Lalji Temple: Our first pit stop was Lalji temple-- built in 1658 by Bir Singha, this laterite temple, like most temples of Bishnupur, is dedicated to lord Krishna and Radha, our rickshawalah informed us.

This is a single spire temple or an ekratna temple.

Among the temples of Bishnupur, the ratna style is very common. It is markedly different from the other style prevalent in this part—the chala style. Although both have similar rectangular base structure, the sloping roof of the chala style becomes more flat and boast one or many churas or ratnas which are turrets constructed as small temples. Depending on the number churas the structures are named as ekratna, panchratna, nabaratna etc. Although, according to many, this idea of installing a cylindrical spire with semi-spherical dome on top of the temple was a direct influence of Muslim architecture; the practice of decorating Hindu temples with miniature shrines was also common in other parts of India.

Within the boundary walls are a nahabat khana and a nat mandir as well. However, the carvings are a sad shadow of a glorious past and the scorching sun was making it unbearable to walk barefoot on the laterite floors and we hop-skip-jumped back to our rickshaw.

Radhya Shyam Temple: Not far from Lalji is another laterite ekratna temple—the Radhey Shyam temple.

Built in 1758 by Chaitanya Singha it is covered with elaborate stucco motifs of floral, geometrical patterns and depictions from the puranas.  The entrances to the sanctum have three arches each, but most of the carvings have fallen prey to time, weather and human neglect. However, some wall reliefs like Chaitanya Dev with six hands, Vishnu resting on ‘Ananta’ the snake and panels on Krishna Leela, Dashavataar, panels of Dashavataar, still reflect its past grandeur.

Keshto Raya Temple or Jor Bangla: Our next pit stop was Keshto Raya temple or Jor Bangla. Built by Raghunatha Singha in 1655 AD, this is one of the most famous temples of the region because of its structural pattern, our rickshwalah, who had by then doubled up as our guide, elaborated.  However, nothing had prepared us for the visual treat that was waiting.

All terracotta temples are characterized by arched entrances, curved cornices and internal domes and vaults. However, these temples are usually classified by their superstructures. Keshto Raya temple is undoubtedly one of the best examples of jor-bangla style—a variation of the ek-bangla structure where the roofs are shaped like thatched hut roof consisting of two sloping roofs (hence it is also called do-chala)ending in a cornice and the interior is a single rectangular chamber. Jor-bangla temples have two such do-chalas, which are joined together and further accentuated by another roof on top. However, what blew me away was not so much the architecture but the intricate and extensive carvings—every inch of the structure is covered with scenes from Ramayana, Mahabharata, Krishna Leela, and daily life. 

The ornamentation, as is the characteristics of the terracotta temples of Bishnupur, is composed of rows of intricately carved burnt-brick panels. In most temples these panels are arranged according to a standard pattern with large panels above the arches depicting elaborate battle scenes, corner panels, arch frames and columns having images of gods and goddesses as well as dancers and musicians, two friezes on the bottom showing scenes from Krishna Leela and daily life.

Among panels depicting Bhishma lying on a bed of arrows, Ram killing Taraka Rakshashi, Buddha breaking fast by accepting food from Sujata, Krisha’s victory over Kalia and Hanuman holding Ravana upside down, I also discerned a Portuguese warship carrying soldiers with firearms and a half-man-half-fish playing guitar as well!

Jugol Kishor Krishna Balaram Temple: The sun had mellowed down by then and the copper earth was exuding an orange hue. Since Shyam Rai Temple was at a stone’s throw from Keshto Raya, we decided to

walk. On our way I spotted some brick ruins jutting out from the green foliage. A closer look revealed two deul-shaped temples. Rekha deul style, most common in temples of Orissa, is characterised by a square sanctum, vertical projections or rekha on the walls, a sikhara, a large amalaka and kalasa on top and chaitya (mesh) decoration covering the facade. Known as the Jugol Kishor Krishna Balaram Temple, this structure like many others in Bishnupur lies in a shambles, even as its privileged neighbours are installed with lights and manicured gardens.

Gumghar: Next we bumped into a weird square shaped structure sans any door or windows. According to our rickshawalah it was known as the Gumghar and served as the torture chamber of the Malla kings. The guilty would be thrown into the chamber of the gumghar from the opening on top and several sharp weapons were installed inside to wound the person. He was left to die there from his injuries and pain. Scary indeed I thought. However, on second thought, it seemed a rather unlikely place to build a torture chamber so close to the palace and a brief background research revealed theories that this could have been a granary or a water reservoir. In fact, in front of the Gumghar is a trench with holes, known as Foara Khana(fountain house) and water from the Gumghar used to flow to this Foara Khana.

Shyam Rai Temple: When we finally reached the Shyam Rai temple it was already dusk and the brick temple was shimmering under the twilight. One of the best examples of the Pancha-Ratna style, this is one of the chief prioritized monuments of the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) and has gone through vigorous renovations. The temple has a central octagonal shikhara while the four corner shikharas has a square base.  According to art historians, the Shyama Raya temple Built in 1643 by King Raghunath Singh is the second pancharatna temple built in Bengal and arguably the finest. 

The motifs that I saw on the temple were all etched out in minute details and were certainly some of the best examples of terracotta art. The last rays of the setting sun were imbuing an ethereal glow to the brick structure and the wall reliefs of Indra fighting from an elephant, the huge ‘Rasamandala’, scenes from Krishna Leela, battle between Ram and Ravan, royal hunting scenes seemed to be slowly coming alive under its magical spell. Before the huge halogen lamps could submerge this terracotta trance I chose to leave and return to the concrete chaos that is the ‘other’ Bishnupur.

Madan Mohan temple: Next morning, to our delight, the weather had suddenly become cloudy soaking the sting from the sun. We started at around 11-30 and headed straight to Madan Mohan Temple—another ekratna temple constructed outside the fort compound in 1694 by Durjana Singh Deva.  This was one of the largest and most ornate yet the least complex temple structures of Bishnupur.  The original idol of Madanmohan was brought from Birbhum and later shipped to Kolkata.  The brick panels depict intricate scenes of slaying of five sons of Pandava princes, mace fight between Bheema and Durjodahan, battles between Hanuman and his army of monkey and Ravana and his soldiers, Hanuman and his army building a bridge to cross the sea to reach Lanka, Sita languishing in Ashok Ban, nine Gopinis forming an elephant. However, the main theme is Krishna Leela and most of the panels depict Sri Krishna’s childhood

or his romance with Radha. The base of the walls are occupied by rows of birds—sparrow, duck, geese as well as fictitious species. On top of it are rows of delicately crafted deer.

Shankhari Para: My neck had already started to pain and we decided to take a break from the panel-spotting. Since the temple was not far from Shankhari Para and Ma has this eternal fascination for sleek, intricate shankhas (conch shell bangles) we thought of checking out some shops. And just as Bishnupur had mesmerised with its baroque terracotta temples, shankhari para left us spell bound with its sheer variety of elaborately-carved conch shell bangles. And apart from bangles, the artisans of Bishnupur were famous for making intricate carvings of mythological characters on the delicate surface of conch shells. However, owning a piece of such an exquisite work of art was worth a fortune and we were happy (and almost broke) with two pairs of shankhas.

Dashabatar cards: Our next pit stop was not on the cards but had everything to do with cards. Seeing our interest in local art and artists, our rickshawalah took us to a dimly-lit house where a man clad in blue cheque lungi and ganjee was painting some small discs.

“These are Dashabatar cards and are found only in Bishnupur,” our rickshawalah proudly pointed out. The man was busy painting the cards and initially not too keen on talking. However, it was only after we promised to buy some cards (which eventually cost us a fortune) that he gave us a broad smile and turned into a chatterbox.  According to Sital Fouzdar, he was the 87th generation of artists employed in making such cards. His forefathers had started making Dashabatar Taas around 1200 years ago under the patronage of the Malla kings of Bishnupur. These cards have their predecessors in Mughal Ganjifa. In most part of India, instead of Muslim motifs, hindu gods and goddesses were more popular and in case of Dashabatar cards two suits were added to the 8-suited Mughal ganjifa and all ten suits were named after ten incarnations of Lord

Vishnu. Dashabatar figures are frequently seen on the panels of various temples of Bishnupur and the influence of Dashabatar card paintings is also seen on ‘patachitras’.  These cards are made by pasting together old pieces of cloth with tamarind glue. Once the layer of cloth becomes stiff it is dried and cut into circles and the base colour is applied. After that figurines are drawn on each card by hand. Apart from Dashabatar cards, we found a stack of another kind of cards. Known as “Naqsh Taas”, this pack of 48 cards is generally used for gambling. These ornate cards are produced in two different sets—one is large and another is a miniature deck. And the detailing on each card of both the sets as well as the container is breathtakingly beautiful. However, gone are the days when the kings and zamindars would waste hours playing Ganjifa. Now Dashabatar  Taas or Naksh Taas are mostly bought by art connoisseurs or foreign tourists.

Raashmancha: Next on our itinerary was the most imposing and majestic structure of the area—the Raashmancha. Built in 1587 by Bir Hambir, this is the oldest brick temple of Bishnupur and of which J.D. Beglar says in Report of a tour through the Bengal ‘provinces... (A.S.I. Vol. VIII, Calcutta, 1878) “The temple is absolutely unique in style and architecture, not only in Bengal, but in India.”

Raashmanchas were usually octagonal structures characterised by arched openings. These did not boast any idol but were meant as the site where idols from various temples in the vicinity were brought and kept

on the occasion of Raash.  What made the Raashmancha of Bishnupur unique is its architecture. This square-shaped brick temple sits on a 5-foot-high laterite plinth and boasts a pyramidal superstructure.

The main structure is surrounded by a series of “three successive circumambulatory arched passageways” giving it a labyrinthine feel. On top of the roof is a pyramidal structure hemmed with do-chala-style roofs installed in a repetitive fashion. And it is these smaller bangle roofs along with the huge Egypt-inspired pyramidal summit give the whole structure a unique look.  However, this was primarily a brick structure and the terracotta carvings were minimal.

From Raasmancha we started towards Lalbandh and on our way crossed the small gate and the large gate of the fort (of which little remains) and a small chariot-like structure made of laterite stone.

Built in 17th century, this stone chariot is another unique structure of Bishnupur.

Dal Madal: Next was the huge Dal Madal canon. According to myths, when Bhaskar Pandit and his Maratha Bargis tried to attack Bishnupur in 1742, Lord Madan Mohan, the tutelary deity of the Mallas himself had fired this canon and saved the town. The name Dal Madalcomes from Dal

Mardan (enemy crusher) and this huge canon was commissioned by Bir Hambir at Rs 1 lakh 25 thousand in 1600.

Close to Dal Madal is the temple of Chinnamasta—one of the most revered goddesses of Bishnupur. The idol here is of a rare kind. However it is not a terracotta temple but a comparatively new structure.

Seven Laterite Ek Ratna Temples: As we travelled further we reached a group of seven ekratna laterite temples built almost next to one another. It seemed all these temples were once covered with stucco works, however today most of that have eroded.

Nandalala Temple: The first temple of this circuit is the Nandalala Temple.  Probably built in the 17th century this temple has very few carvings left on its walls. This structure has been given the status of a monument of national interest under the ancient monuments and archaeological sites and remains act.

Jor-Mandir: Next to this temple are three similar-looking temples built in 1726 by Krishna Singh. Together, these are tagged as Jor Mandir.

Radhagovinda Temple: In a little distance from Jor Mandir, stands another temple. Known as the Radhagovinda temple, this square structure was built by Krishna Singha in 1729. Here several bass-relief carvings have stucco work. Inside the temple compound is a small but intricate brick chariot.

Radha Madhab Temple: Next temple we visited is another fine example of the ek-ratna style. Radha Madhab temple had a hexagonal spire and ‘rekha’-styled dome. Built in 1737 by Churamoni devi, one of the wives of the Malla king Bir Singha, this temple has some fine carvings of scenes from Krishna-Lila, Dashavatar and Ramayan’s Aranya Kando and Sundara Kanda. Although the wall-reliefs were intricate, most have fallen prey to the ravages of time. There is a ‘do-chala’ ‘Bhog-Mandapa’ inside the compound of this temple which is the sole example of do-chala structures in Bishnupur temples.

Kalachand Temple:  One of the oldest ekratna structures of Bishnupur, this temple was built by Raghunath Singha Dev in 1656. It has three-arched corridors on each side and like Radha Madhab temple boasts a rekha deul on top of the roof. Dedicated to Radha and Krishna, most carvings on this temple depict scenes of Krishna Leela.

Lal Bandh: Bishnupur was once a land punctuated with water bodies. It boasted 9 bandhs (reservoir) and 5 sayors (ponds). Then there were numerous trenches and kundas around the fort. These were dug to solve the problem of water scarcity in the area and were also used for recreational purposes of the members of the royal family. However, most are now covered with silt and the only one that is of some interest to the tourists is the Lal Bandh. Although it has little scenic beauty left, it still lures tourists with its story of Lal Bai.

Raghunath Singh II of Bishnupur had an affair with a dancing girl called Lal bai, and had a child with her. The queen was upset and in a fit of rage she killed the King and drowned Lal Bai in this lake before committing sati. According to another version it was the king who had put Lal Bai and her child in a boat with a hole and left them to drown in this lake.

The still water had soaked up the last rays of the sun. Sitting on the step of Lal Bandh, listening to our autorickshawala narrate the story of the sad fate of Lal Bai, I could feel a chill run down my spine. Who needs facts when you have fiction and the right settings to go with it!

With that our Bishnupur trip had come to an end. Before embarking on the journey I had decided to steer clear from Baluchari sarees, Bishnupuri horses and any kind of museum and hoped to cover everything else within two days. Now it seemed we hadn’t explored even half of the experience that is Bishnupur. It was like hastily flipping through a book without reading it. Each temple of Bishnupur demands a day (and a whole bottle of Relispray for the neck!).

                                                             

Ladakh Festival

The bus ride through the Manali-Leh highway--which was at times a pitched road, at times a narrow strip of land studded with stone chips, at times a dirt road and at times just plain heaps of sand and rock-- was undoubtedly the most exhausting and arduous 8 hours of the trip so far and yet I wanted the journey not to end.  Cut across a gorgeous terrain with jaw-dropping rock formations creating some mind-blowing landscapes devoid of any hint of vegetation, the bus ride offered a rare chance to experience the rugged, raw side of nature that was at the same time scary and stunning.  But then Ladakh was known for its picture-perfect unique landscapes. I was more interested to know about the people and culture of this land shrouded in myths. And Ladakh Festival provided the perfect opportunity. 

Just before the winter starts to set in and the extreme weather condition isolates the region from the rest of India, the people of Ladakh dress up in their brightest best and put up a grand show for the last lot of tourists. However, Ladakh Festival, unlike other festivals, is not organised by any monastery but is a government initiative to stretch the tourist season and offers glimpses of various local customs and festivals.

When we finally reached Leh, the evening sun had weaved a magical golden mesh over the town that looked decked up in all finery. The streets, lined with shops selling trinkets, books, Buddhist charms, Ladakhi handicrafts, and of course ‘German bakeries’, were teeming with tourists and local people, and all seemed to be already in a festive mode!

But the real show started the next day. The opening-day procession was supposed to be the highlight of the show and it certainly lived up to its reputation. When we made our way through the festooned lanes swarming with locals in traditional elaborate Ladakhi and Tibetan dresses and camera-laden tourists looking for photo-ops, we hardly expected the carnival that awaited us. As we got closer to the main market area, the heady mix of drum beats and robust melodies of various indigenous wind instruments and gongs announced the grandeur of the event. The main road was throbbing with activities and various small groups hailing from far-flung villages of Ladakh were serving a heady cocktail of folk dances, music and street theatre. Apart from pretty girls performing their traditional dances sporting distinctive and colourful costumes and elaborate hairdos, there were masked dancers, dancers dressed as yaks and lions, hugely-built men dancing with open swords, and when it came to celebrations age was certainly not an issue-- wrinkled, old women were matching steps with girls barely in their teens.

 The pageant was headed by the local polo team. Although the performances were well-rehearsed and designed to entertain the tourists, it was difficult to contain the free-spirited Ladakhis within set rules-- dancers would suddenly stop their performance to touch up their lipstick and comb their hair; girls engrossed in gossiping would forget all about the performance and burst out laughing scaring the rest; jesters would leave their acts midway and indulge in some free-style dancing with the foreigners; and what not. Yet there was method in that madness. As the procession approached the polo ground, where the inaugural event was to be held, the cheering reached its peak and so did the antics of the photographers. I even discerned a sombre-looking shutterbug lying on the street hoping to get a good shot of the gorgeous hand-crafted boots of the dancers! At the end came the king and the queen who joined the procession followed by an entire entourage of soldiers, ministers and priests.   

The polo ground was huge and the inaugural function was held at one corner of it. The shamianas were reserved for delegates and foreign tourists and we the ‘natives’ had to huddle together on the ground. Not that I mind sitting on the dust, but this kind of bias did put me off. The mercury outside was rising too. Due to less cloud cover the sun rays in this corner of the country are harsh and sitting under the open sky felt like sitting under a magnifying glass – I was scared I might go up in flames. Although, next day the newspaper headlines didn’t scream of any spontaneous human combustion occurring during the festival, sitting directly exposed to the sun for an hour my linen clothes had turned scalding hot and I could see blisters on my skin. It was then that I realised why the people living in these parts of the world wear such thick clothes even in summer.

After an inaugural speech by one of the most handsome and soft-spoken chief minister of India, Omar Abdullah, the main event started. The groups that were part of the procession staged various dances, dramas and dance dramas based on folklores, religious stories or events from daily life. Some even presented glimpses of various local festivals. I was quite surprised to notice the diversity among the people of Ladakh. Each of these remote isolated villages had their own unique traditions, customs, food habits, and costumes adding layers to the cultural matrix and colour to the otherwise monochromatic palette of Ladakh.

However, the best part of the show was the dance drama performed by school kids. It was a story of people living under extreme weather condition, the trials and tribulations of their daily life. There were children dressed as hunters, farmers and cattlemen; children dressed as yaks, deer, and bulls; and children dressed as children. While the older ones worked hard to put up a truly entertaining show, it was the younger ones who won most hearts by doing what they could do best—look as cute as cupcakes! Life indeed can be so unfair!

The event ended with a dance in which the chief minister not only matched steps with the performers raising security concerns but also invited the tourists and local people to join him. And when such a handsome man invites you for a dance it is a sin to refuse and most people chose to hit the dance floor and rot in hell! Soon, the elegant European lady, the prayer-wheel holding old Ladakhi woman, the matted-hair hippy, the on duty reporter, the ever-smiling monk, the saree-clad mother of two, were dancing together like one big happy family. Indeed festivals bring hearts closer and it was just the 1^st day of the Ladakh Festival!

When Art is Skin Deep!

Tattoos are one of the oldest forms of art and this is evident from the tattooed mummies discovered from various parts of the world. Much before it became associated with thugs, pirates and the underbelly of the society, the Egyptians, the Mayans, the Incas, the Aztecs, the Borneos, the Hawaiians, the Maoris, the Samoans, the Celts, the Japanese and the Indians each had their distinctive styles of tattooing and in each society it had an important socio-cultural significance. According to 1996 edition of the 30-volume Macmillan Dictionary of Art: “The art is attested in almost every culture worldwide....In Europe and North America, until the late 20th century, tattooing was largely connected with two groups: members of the armed forces and prisoners...From the 1960s onwards, however, changes in the social status of tattoo art in Europe and North America has led to considerable experimentation with forms and styles.”


Today tattoos are going through a phase of renaissance and regaining respect as an art form. Auteurs like Paul Booth, Guy Aithison, Bob Tyrrell, Aaron Cain , Ryan Dearringer, Den Yakovlev, Anil Gupta, Daemon Rowanchide, Filip Liu are not only experimenting with the genre with jaw-dropping effect, they are also pushing the envelope further by incorporating elements of fine art to it.

In the West, tattoo conventions and expos are commonplace and now even art galleries like Arts Center@319 in Virginia, Noyes Museum of Art in New Jersey, Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, National Maritime Museum in London, Hallways Contemporary Art Center in 0020New York, University of Colorado-Boulder museum, are opening the door of their galleries to tattoo artists and their art works-- tattoo related art form is a subject of study. Way back in 1986, the National Museum of American Art had added pieces of tattoo design work to its permanent art collection.

However, there is no denying the fact that tattoos are different from any other branch of fine art. Apart from the fact that here the artist’s perception is guided or based upon the wish of the client and these works of art has no resale value, here the canvas is human skin. “Like in any other art form, it is very important for the artist to have a good understanding of the medium he is working on. And skin is a unique medium-- it moves, it bleeds, it changes shape when you move and it can be of different types,” says Duncan Veigas, an artist with Kraayonz Tattoos, Goa. Everyone’s body has a unique flow to it and the challenge is to make a tattoo flow with the body.

According to Abhinandan Basu of Pune’s Inkalab: “The fact that it is on someone else’s skin also makes it the only form of art where a unique relationship based on trust develops between the artist and the medium. In no other art form does a medium have an opinion- but in tattooing they often do!”

However, Abhinandan also points out that Indian skin is far more difficult to work on than white skin—it is like painting on a tinted canvas. “We cannot use the entire range of colors available on tanned skin,” Abhinandan says.

There are various styles of tattooing. With the more common tribal, bio-mechanical, realism, portraits, Japanese, old school, new school etc there are some rare styles like painterly, animated, hyper realism, trash polka, realistic trash polka and the even rarer like dada.

Abhinandan, specializes in a comparatively new style of tattooing that is based on a technique developed by painters like Georges Seurat and Paul Signac. Called pointillism or dotism this neo-Impressionist style uses tiny dots to create a painting. “Over the last year I have been spending more time trying to develop this style and giving it a direction which is essentially my own and based on traditional Indo-Tibetan motifs. I call it Neo-Traditional-Dotism-in-Color. The USP of this style of tattooing is the unique look that these tattoos have - the geometric patterns give it a 3-D view and the Indian motifs balances it out with a softer, almost surreal look,” says Abhinandan. However, according to him colour realism remains by far his toughest challenge as the dark complexion of Indian skin limits the colour palatte.

Lokesh Verma of Delhi’s Devil’z Tattooz specializes in Xerox-perfect portraits and realism: “I love to reproduce images like faces or any other real image, the USP is that you have to do exactly what is given to you, there are no margins of error if you compare it to other abstract styles.”

However, Duncan does not believe in limiting his work to any particular style and says: “I keep myself open to any request that walks through the door. Given the fact that the tattoo culture is only just taking off in India, I think it is not a good idea to be proficient in just one style. I like to incorporate various styles in my tattoos depending on the design.” Duncan specializes in ‘custom-made designs’. “I may repeat the same idea if asked but not the same design,” says Duncan.

However, not all who ink can be called artists. There are multitudinous inkers who merely take a ‘tattoo flash’, copy it on the skin and trace around. Their work does not involve ‘art’ but a hand that is steady with the tattoo machine. A good tattoo artist should be a great freehand artist first. For Swapnil Gawde, a graduate from J J School of Arts who is now a tattoo artist with the Mumbai-based TattooStar Collective, tattooing has been an extension of his journey as an artist and Swapnil says: “I believe to be a good tattoo artist one needs to be a good artist first. Tattooing has a lot of technical aspects to it, but at the core of everything is the art. Technology can be learnt but art is inherent and can only be honed.”

In the West there are connoisseurs who treat tattoos as collector’s item. There are artists who draw directly onto the skin first and then tattoo. The use of stencils in these cases is almost nil.

“It is like commissioning a painting from a renowned painter. You know the style and the kind of imagery to expect and the fact that you would get a one-of-a-kind work of art, but the rest is on the artist’s imagination and interpretation,” elaborates Duncan. However, in India, the artists have a long way to go to establish the status of a tattoo from a mere ‘fashion statement’ to a ‘work of art’.  

The tattoo side story

Tattoos are probably one of the oldest surviving art forms and its styles as diverse as the people wearing them. For some, tattoos are markers used to differentiate a clan from the rest, some believe in its ‘therapeutic’ benefits and some in its magical powers; some wear tattoos to look more attractive and a few to look ugly.


In 1991, a mummy of a man who lived in around 3,300 BC was found frozen in the Ötztal Alps and it bore 57 tattoos. However, the very first tattoo was probably created by accident by rubbing soot-covered hands over open wounds. It was the Egyptians who spread the practice of tattooing. In 1891, archaeologists discovered the mummified remains of a tattooed woman in Thebes. Known as Amunet, she was a priestess of the goddess Hathor between 2160 BC and 1994 BC. The tattoos found on her body were made of dashes and dots. As time went by, the designs became more complex and by 1500 BC pictorial imagery of musicians, dancers, and acrobats started emerging in tattoos. While in Japan, figures found in tombs dated 3,000 BC or older, have faces painted or engraved to represent tattoo marks. In old-school Japanese tattoos the entire body would be tattooed and a common traditional body suit would cover the arms, back, upper legs and chest. This is known as Irezumi and it may take a horishi (tattoo artist) two to ten years to insert one Irezumi by hand.

Polynesian tattoos are one of the most intricate ones of the ancient world and these people believe that a person’s mana is displayed through their tattoo. Traditional Samoan male tattoo, known as the Pe'a, is an elaborate affair and covers the body from waist to knees. While in Hawaii, tattoos not only signify social status but are also believed to guard the bearer’s physical and spiritual health. The Maori, indigenous people of New Zealand, call their style of tattooing Ta-moko and is one of the most painful methods ever practiced. Here, instead of puncturing the skin, it is chiselled out and the pigment is applied over it. Traditionally, Maori tattoos were used as a means of personal identification and incorporated social status, lines of descent and tribal affiliations as well as exploits and events of life; and covered the entire face, as well as the legs and buttocks of men.

Roman writers like Virgil, and Seneca have documented instances of slaves and criminals being tattooed. During the early Roman Empire, all slaves exported were tattooed “tax paid” and many had “Stop me, I'm a runaway” marked on their foreheads as well. It was in fourth century when Constantine became the emperor, that tattooing on face was banned.

In India, tattooing is considered to be an ancient custom and can be still observed among the tribal people of Arunachal Pradesh, Nagaland, Orissa, Gujarat, Jharkhand, Bihar etc . While, Gond tribes wear tattoos to flaunt their status; Konyaks of Nagaland used to tattoo their faces like other headhunters from the Pacific islands. If Mal Paharia women believe tattooing keeps their organs healthy and helps them to function properly, some tribes perform tattoo ‘operations’ to heal muscle and joint pain.

Many believe the absence of tattoo marks would call upon the wrath of Yama after death, while some others plan to engage God in intricate riddles of tattoos in afterlife. While the legs of Khond women are completely marked with sets of parallel lines to make their legs strong for climbing; some Naga tribes believe that distinctive tattoo marks on women allow their ancestors to recognise them in heaven while others think tattoos could be used as currency to purchase food and other provisions in the afterlife. Women of Meena tribe wear tattoos on their hands and faces to look pretty, while women of Kutia Kondh tribe boast identical geometric facial tattoos to recognise each other in after life; Apatani tribe used to tattoo (this was banned in the 70s) the faces of their girls to mark them as their own as well as make them unattractive to rival tribes; and Chang women tattoo their face to frighten tigers!

— AG

Shekhawati: Hand-painted towns on sand

The RTDC hotel at Jhunjhunu was hardly impressive and the town didn’t look any better either. I do prefer places which are less touristy but Jhunjhunu seemed to have hardly seen any tourist until me. And I had planned to make this place my base for the next two days of my Shekhawati trip.


I had already started to regret my decision when I rather reluctantly boarded an auto-rickshaw to reach the market where according to my guidebook I was supposed to find some amazingly beautiful frescoed havelis. After a teeth-chattering roller-coaster ride through some of the narrowest and most serpentine lanes imaginable, when I finally reached where I thought I was supposed to reach, I realised that I was standing in the middle of a busy vegetable market looking for frescoed havelis! There must have been some terrible mistake — I must have landed myself on a doppelganger of the town mentioned in the guidebook!

Just as I was making my way through the crowd to catch an auto back to the hotel I saw a placard saying ‘Modi Haveli’ So, it exists! And I am on the right track!

The colossal wooden door with intricate carvings and fancy brass iron fittings did not prepare me for what was waiting for me inside — a stuck-in-time huge haveli with amazingly intricate frescos on each wall and roof along with an old caretaker who resembled Om Puri of Mirch Masala! He offered to show me around, in exchange for `100. Although I found the rate a bit too high, I was not ready to miss one inch of the experience that was the Ishwardas Modi Haveli.

As my Om Puri unlocked the doors of the rooms and legends he told me about the four brothers who built exact same rooms in the four corners of the house to avoid property dispute and how the 365 windows of the haveli were constructed in a manner to keep a constant flow of air and yet obstruct the harsh rays of sun from falling directly on the walls. However, the frescos had mesmerised me by then.

Unlike other parts of Rajasthan, Shekhawati, boasting of some obscure specks of village-towns jutting out from the arid desert, is yet to make its presence felt on the tourist map and it was not until I reached Bissau the next day, that I realised why this region was called ‘an open-air art gallery’ and was any art lover’s El Dorado!

The sleepy hamlet welcomed me with a cacophony of images vying for attention — horse, camel and elephant-drawn carriages of various shapes and sizes, mythological characters, solemn looking gods and goddesses, weird animals, curly moustached men, self-obsessed women, erotic couples, European soldiers, motor vehicles, trains, telephones, gramophones, balloons, bicycles and what not! The walls, roofs, parapets of every house were plastered with frescos with themes ranging from gravely religious to utter burlesque.

On our way to Bissau, we had stopped at a Police chowki to ask for directions. And the very mention of Bissau yielded the strangest of statements: “Arey woh Bissau jo Bangaliyon ka gaon hay?” I must have looked visibly shocked for the constable had quickly explained: “Madam wahan ke log Kalkatta mein hi rehtey hein”. Oh simple enough! But why would people from such an obscure village of Rajasthan travel all the way to Calcutta? The scorching sun must be having its effect on the constable, I thought.

And it was not until I reached Bissau that his ‘delirium’ started showing tell-tale signs of turning into reality. The ‘obscure village’ was lined with opulant, desolate havelis. As I stumbled upon a huge elephant standing on two legs, blowing a trumpet to please an European officer and a girl in swimming costume getting ready to take the plunge, I couldn’t resist asking a passerby about the mystery behind the locked doors. “Sab gaon gaye hain”... Gone to ‘native place’? Now where could that be? I wondered. Well, Calcutta of course! Most of the owners of these grand havelis are prosperous merchants who have migrated to Calcutta, he elaborated. I was rather curious to check the interiors of these havelis and asked one of the caretakers if I could manage a sneak peek. He asked me to call the owner for permission which I did and was curtly denied because I was an Indian. Only ‘foreign tourists’ are granted entry to this padlocked painted world I was told!

However, after Bissau, we headed towards arguably one of the most beautifully painted towns of the region — Ramgarh. So would there be frescos of Gabbar Singh and his boots? I could almost hear a spine-chilling voice echoing in my brain “Holi kab hay? Kab hay Holi?” The car screeched to a halt. I opened my eyes to reality and saw a road packed with cars, camel carts, donkeys, porters and general madness and a mass effort to clear the chaos leading to further chaos. Suddenly out of nowhere a man in a suit walked up to our car. “Please follow me,” he said in calm voice. I was hesitant to follow but we needed a way out from this pandemonium. So he guided us through narrow alleys and meandering lanes and landed us in front of a heritage property named Ramgarh Fresco. He then introduced himself as the ‘Manager’ of the heritage hotel and museum and told us that we could have our lunch there. He would then take us for a walk around the town. I suddenly realised I hadn’t eaten anything the whole day and the voice of Gabbar that I was hearing in my brain was actually my stomach grumbling for food! And what can be better that a scrumptious, authentic Rajasthani thali!

Most frescos of the haveli were beautifully restored and the ambience and the food were as good as the paintings on the wall. After chilling out for some time I accompanied Mr Manager for a walk around the town. Each haveli that he took me to had breathtakingly beautiful paintings and many were getting a facelift. The manager was a knowledgeable man and told me about the history of the region in great detail. Ramgarh, also known as Sethan Ramgarh (Ramgarh of the Seths) was established by the wealthy Poddars who rebelled against the hefty tax hike in Churu and relocated here. And the baroque havelis of the area were built in an attempt to outshine the flamboyance of their former home.

These small towns of Shekhawati were once part of the Southern Silk Route and were home to the rich and flourishing merchant community. As time passed, many members of this community migrated to Bombay and Calcutta in search of better prospects and with their inherent business acumen most of them made a fortune trading with the East India Company. Even today most of the lineage of the country’s most powerful industrialists and businessmen like the Neotias, the Ruias, the Birlas, the Goenkas and the Poddars can be traced back to the Shekhawati merchants.

It was a custom in this region for any trader who amasses a considerable amount of wealth to build four things in their native village — a haveli, a baoli (well), a mandir and a dharamshala. The more wealthy the businessman, the more lavish the construction and more intricate the frescos.

However, the frescos not only reflect the opulence of the owners of these havelis, they also document the changing socio-economic scenario. What started with painting gods and goddesses on the walls to protect the house from evil gradually started accommodating common men and their daily lives. The frescoes painted in the early 20th century reflected distinct European influences and gave birth to a new style of painting known as the ‘Company Style’ where airplanes, ships, sofa sets, sewing machines, gramophones, trains, trumpets, and telephones were painted using Rajasthani miniatures and so on.

Most of these painters had no direct contact with the western world and would depend on the elaborate, often absurd description of the traders back from a business trip abroad and the result would often be a bizarre interpretation of the actual objects. Most frescos that adorn these houses are over 100 to 200 years old and are done in a style similar to fresco buono method developed in Italy around the 14th century.

Today the profusely painted, often dilapidated, havelis that line the dust-laden lanes and by-lanes of these village towns are just mementos from that prosperous past.

However, my time was up. The sun was waning and my neck had already started to pain staring at the roofs, walls, windows; my eyes watery from the assault of colours, and I could feel crystals of ‘information’ stiffening my brain.

As I left for my next destination, I saw children playing marbles on the street, women making lacquer bangles and roasting them on hot plates, an old man explaining the meaning of some Sanskrit sloka to a young kid sitting on a chair at a corner of a narrow lane, and the brightly-coloured frescos shimmering on the backdrop of the pale ochre town.

And I knew I had to return to these hauntingly beautiful towns of Rajasthan.

Tasting Times!

 One of my friends once asked me how can I get lost so often in a city I live in and yet manage to find my way around completely strange cities! Well the answer is simple: You can’t get lost if you don’t know where you are supposed to be!
And it was on one such ‘Oh-God-I-Am-Lost-Again’ afternoons, while walking through the meandering lanes and bylanes of North Kolkata, part of the city I call home, that my gourmand’s nose led me to a humble food stall. What caught my attention was the name —  Baruah & Dey— a rather unusual name for an eatery! There were seven-eight people eating outside sharing a long wooden bench and inside was a man making fresh batches of fries. “O kaku panteras hobey? (Uncle do you have panteras?) A boy with eyes hungrier and bigger than mine was peering from behind. “Panteras? Now what the hell is that?" I had never heard anything like it before! I went in to check the menu — maybe he meant something else I thought. The menu read: breast cutlet, fish fry, chicken fry, fish roll...and yes ‘Pantaras’!


I asked the lady at the counter what this weird word meant and of course she had no idea! But she told me that Panteras is to the Dey and Baruah what Kati rolls are to the Nizam’s — a house specialty. I knew that I had to taste it! And as I took the first bite I realised I was not lost! I felt like Columbus! And it was my destiny to discover the Panteras—a heavenly piece of cutlet made with chicken and eggs and more (however, I still have no clue what the word means. The closest I found on Google was: St Pantherus, martyred in Alexandria, in a slowly burning fire with Paul)
A friend once said: “Families of north Kolkata are very particular about their food. We are brought up on a strict beguni-kobiraji-fish fry diet. Our Sunday mornings are never complete without parar morer gutey kochuri ar jilipi. We need ‘cha’ er shathe ‘ta’ and more oily the ‘ta’ the better!” As a true Bangal should know his ilish and a ghoti his chingri, a quintessential north Calcuttan should be tested on his knowledge about cutlets — how coverage cutlet (chicken cutlet covered with egg) became kobiraji cutlet, and why not to look shell-shocked when someone says: ‘O dada duto breast deben’ and in reply comes another equally shocking question: ‘Kaar?’
And it is for this very reason that in north Kolkata at some non-descript corner of some dark unknown alley you might stumble upon a shop selling even a mouthful of sky (coated with breadcrumbs and deep-fried!). Some such must-try foods of north Kolkata are radhaballavi and chholar daal at Puntiram, mutton Afghani at coffee house and egg devils at Bholanath Cabin. And if you like ‘moton’ and you are a bong, it would be a sin to stop you from sampling Gol Bari’s kosha mangsho (I have always found their mutton a bit dry and stodgy though). Lakhinarayan Shaw’s (on Bidhan Sarani) peyaji— a favourite of Subhas Bose — still remains one of the best the city offers. Another shop famous for its telebhaja is Kalika Mukhorochok Telebhaja on Surya Sen Street — their mochar chop chingrir chop, fish chop, mutton chop and egg chop are simply ‘gorge-ous’!
However, if you are neither the explorer kinds nor belong to the bharey cha-Potla’r telebhaja-roakey adda clan and the ghoogni gali at Hatibagan doesn’t make you salivate, then the cafes and cabin restaurants are just the right place for you.
Cabin restaurants, as the names suggest, had small wooden cabins with curtains (usually red!). Today most of these hotels have tore down these cabins to make space for more customers and gone are the romance of the red curtains but what remains is the cha with some lip-smacking, oil-dripping ta and the bikeler adda. Mitali, Dilruba, New Malancha, Ratna and Silver Valley are some such restaurants which still serve great food. However, a few cabin hotels in and around Hatibagan still boast these romance and nostalgia-laden wooden cabins as does Niren Cabin at Shovabazar. Initially made to provide some privacy to the ‘family crowd’, these are now hot favourites among the lovebirds!
I still remember whenever ma took me to Hatibagan for shopping; we would go to Shupti or such cabin restaurants and gorge into heavenly moglai parotas (famous at Anadi Cabin) and mammoth-size dhakai parotas (I don’t know of any place that still serves this variety). But more than the food, I used to love those cosy little cabins and always insisted on closing the curtain and shutting the world out—now this can be my train, my chariot, my horse-drawn carriage and even my thatch-roofed hut!
However, it was when I was in college that I got introduced to the ‘real thrills’ of a ‘cabin hotel’ with Dikhusha becoming a part of our everyday life. And these 'thrills' had absolutely nothing to do with their amazing kobiraji (which even my brother, who describes eating a oil-soaked kobiraji as similar to having a cold dalda-laden biryani and cough syrup after five days on anti-biotic, found delicious the last time I went)!
These cabins were places where ‘first meetings’ between prospective ‘lovers’ were ‘organised’, where the shy guy would take five cutlets and nine cups of tea to propose to that ‘trying-to-look-shy-but-am-bored-to death-and-I-hate-red-rose’ girl, where friends would console the ‘heartbroken’ by offering him their own precious cigarettes and tea and paying the bill of a mammoth meal, and where the waiter will always peek with the bill when you have finally manage to muster the courage for that first kiss! So much were these cabins a part of some love stories that according to ‘urban legend’ a famous cabin hotel at Shyambazar had specially decorated one of their cabins to celebrate the marriage of one such couple!
Among the existing cafe’s one of the most popular one is the Mitra Cafe at Baghbazar and their brain chop can be easily regarded as Kolkata’s answer to the Mumbai’s bheja fry (even Sarvi’s!). However, near Mitra cafe, is a small cafe called Allen Kitchen, with a brief menu but scrumptious food including the best (even if a tad expensive at Rs 74) prawn cutlets (also try their chicken stack!) in the city. The members of the family still supervise the kitchen and the recipes are never given to outside cooks.
Unlike other restaurants, these eateries serve tea along with food and are ideal for long uninterrupted adda sessions. Although, food in these cabins and cafes are usually drowned in oil, it is nonetheless fresh and unbelievably cheap (and you also get onion- cucumber salad and mustard sauce free! Free! FREE!). Some of these restaurants serve amazingly appetizing stews and a few (like Purbani near Hatibagan) even make mouth-watering mangsho’r shingara (not to be confused with North India samosas) on Sundays!
And then there are cabins meant just for intellectual and political discussions—where all the items on the menu are within Rs10 and includes kata cake, paan cake, lebu cha, biscuit and the likes!

All is not lost! (Sariska)

The three-day Ranthambore trip was over and I was on my way to Sariska via Bharatpur. Every single soul had advised me to drop these two places from the itinerary as ‘there are no tigers left in Sariska’ and the Keoladeo bird sanctuary at Bharatpur is now a desert where one can only find a few crows’. However, I am not a tourist but a traveller and I had no checklist to tick. And tigers or no tigers, forests never fail to cast a spell on me— even the teeth-chattering ride through the dirt roads and the smell of the first rays on the dew-kissed foliage has a charm of its own.
The manager of the hotel, Babulalji, suggested that I take a train from Sawai Madhopur to Bharatpur as the bus journey was not safe and he made sure that his ‘suggestion’ was followed! He got the auto and almost made the poor autowallah swear to god that he will get me the ticket and make sure ‘madam’ makes it to the right platform and the right train! And Babulalji was quick to add that I board the ‘Ladies compartment’. The shopwallah of RTDC, whose chacha works in Burrabazaar and who knows the exact distance and travel time from Kolkata to Gangasagar as much as the number of tigers in each zone of Ranthambhore and which is the best time to spot each, had repeatedly cautioned me against doing anything remotely ‘adventurous’ during the journey as this part of Rajasthan lies close to the border. And like all border towns is not very safe. But nothing could have prepared me for the ‘adventure’ I eventually landed myself in — a journey in an ‘unreserved’ ladies compartment!
It was three hours of absolute madness! The seats meant for four were occupied by seven and at times eight people, there were people sitting (read hanging) from the bunks meant to keep luggage, and the floor was occupied with random bags, trunks, jholas, mismatched shoes, people, feet, and what not. After almost an hour I got a speck of a seat and as I parked myself, I realised that over my head, hanging from the luggage bunk was one of the dirtiest pair of feet ever walked this planet. I was sharing my seat with five other women including a housewife from a well-off Brahmin family from Kota who wanted to be a teacher but was not allowed to, a Muslim girl who lives alone and breaks bricks at a construction site in Faridabad, another housewife from Mathura who has some home remedy for almost every ailment, and a Sikh lady with a kirpan and an infectious smile — each had their own story and their own journeys and yet were a part of the same story!
When I finally reached Keoladeo National Park it was around 4pm. As I got my entry ticket I was told that the best way to explore the park was by hiring a bicycle or a cycle-rickshaw! “What? A bicycle ride through a national park? Did I hear that right?” Of course I did! As I turned around I saw a fleet of bicycles and small box-shaped rickshaws standing at the gate. As it was hardly two hours before the park was to close down for the day, I opted for a rickshaw.
I did not have high expectations as far as bird-spotting was concerned as there were much written on how the heydays of this Ramsar Site are now over due to acute scarcity of water. But since my experience so far was limited to discerning crows and pigeons posing on lamp posts and statues, I hired a guide before embarking on the expedition.
However, after a while my guide told me the best way to explore this Unesco World Heritage site was by foot. So I got down from the rickshaw and decided to go off the beaten track. I was pleasantly surprised to find my guide to be quite a knowledgeable person and the sanctuary throbbing with avian population! From common parakeets, peacocks, owls and kingfishers to pin tailed ducks, purple herons, grey hornbills, and painted storks — it was a feast for the eyes.
My guide told me that under a new government project, some water from the Chambal river has been diverted to this region and this is slowly bringing back the birds to Keoladeo and Keoladeo back to life. The sun was about to set and I was a tad disappointed to have missed the boat ride. But it was time to leave and Sariska was waiting for me the next day.
Sariska is an hour-long bus ride from Alwar. Somewhere in the beginning of 2005 it was discovered that there were no tigers left in Sariska Tiger Reserve and poachers were blamed. It was decided that tigers would be reintroduced to the forest and in 2008 Sariska got its first tiger from Ranthambhore under this project. A total of six tigers have been relocated so far (this before the arrival of ST-7) and at present the number of tigers in this reserve forest is five. Although the topography is similar, spread across an area of around 866 km, it is much larger than Ranthambhore. This makes tiger sightings at Sariska extremely rare and most ‘tiger lovers’ prefer to give it a miss. After spending three days in the tourist-infested Ranthambhore, I desperately needed a trip to a forest which didn’t feel like a picnic spot.
The first thing I noticed was that instead of Canters all tourists can avail jeeps which meant fewer crowds and less chance of ending up with whining babies. Nothing spoils a jungle safari more than a noisy crowd and I had my share of that at Ranthambhore. Also, it is easier to explore the interiors of the forest in jeeps as they can easily ply on the narrow dirt roads.
Apart from the driver, there was a forest guard who spoke little but smiled a lot. Ours was the only vehicle on the route apart from a few occasional patrol cars. 15-minutes into the tiger reserve, I was already in love with the rugged beauty of Sariska and the forest was bustling with activities — as the vegetation was sparse we spotted a fox running after a peacock for no apparent reason, two deer locking horns in a friendly fight, a swamp deer trying a mud pack to cool off, a congregation of spotted deer waiting for some divine miracle, an antelope trying to pass itself off as an unicorn, and what not.
The forest guard decided to check the control room if there is any movement of a tiger nearby. After the reintroduction of tigers the forest department has become extra-cautious and now all five tigers have been radio-collared and cameras have been installed in various areas of the forest to monitor their movements.
There was a signal, though a frail one, coming from top of one of the hills. Our guard had a gut feeling that it might come down in another half an hour and cross the road — nothing works better than a forest guard’s gut feeling in times such as these and we decided to give it a shot. We drove to the road which the tiger might cross and waited. There was an eerie calm and we could almost feel one another’s heartbeats. It was certainly not one of the best places to park a car—the tiger might come from any side and the guy might just not be in the mood for visitors. On times like these reading the hanuman chalisa, or a mere Ram-naam might have helped boost the morale but being an atheist all I found myself muttering was the Mountain Dew tagline: Dar ke agey jeet hay!
After waiting for quite some time, we lost patience and our guard decided to go back and recheck the signals. We were half-way to the control room when the driver suggested it was better that we try for the same tiger and wait at the same spot as there were hardly 45 minutes left until all vehicles are supposed to be out of the park. So we made a U-turn and as we reached the road there it was! Walking majestically down the road! Even the forest guard could not believe his luck! “This is the first time I am seeing this one! It is the ST-6—one of the two male tigers!” whispered the guard.
The driver slowly started following the tiger and I started shooting (of course with my camera!). After some time it turned back and faced the camera with an amused look. For the next 15/20 minutes we kept following it until it got bored with all the attention and went down into the jungle. I pinched myself! Ouch! It really did happen then! After Bandhavgarh, Corbett, Ranthambhore, I managed to spot a tiger even in Sariska!

Itz a mad MAD world! (Ranthambhor)

I had already begun to regret my decision to opt for a RSTC bus instead of the early morning train. It was around 1 pm and I was standing at a bus terminus of some off-the-map obscure village named Uniyara waiting for a bus known simply as hari rang ki gari — it seemed nobody has ever bothered to know the number of this green-coloured bus and I thanked my stars for not being colour blind!
Finally after what seemed an eternity, the bus arrived and the sight almost gave me a heart attack — there were heads and arms and jholas jutting out from every window, the roof was layered with rainbow-coloured luggage and people, and I am sure even a needle would die of asphyxia if it wanted to get past that door. But then it is the only bus that can take me to my destination. I was already way behind my schedule and was not too keen to wait for 6 hours at this middle-of-nowhere bus stand for the next hari rang ki gari.
So, I gathered all my courage and took my backpack, hand luggage and a deep breath — ‘you got to do what you got to do’ I reminded myself.
But just as I started walking towards the ticket window a familiar voice stopped me: “Arey madam yeh ulti bus hay!” ‘Ulti bus?’ now what is that supposed to mean? I looked around and spotted the ever-smiling Prateik Babbar...erm... the conductor of my Jaipur-Uniyara bus grinning at me. ‘Madam yeh bus Sawai Madhopur se Tonk ja rahi hay. Apki wali Tonk se aayegi,’ he explained.
Ah right! But no sooner had I heaved a sigh of relief, another equally over-populated green bus arrived. “Madam chalo aap ki bus” and before I could react I saw ‘Prateik’ clutch my hand luggage and deftly manoeuvre through the crowd. As if in a trance I followed him and my bag and when I came to my senses, I and my backpack along with the hand luggage were inside the bus, sitting pretty on a window seat and were ALIVE.
This was my fifth trip to Rajasthan and what makes me fall in love with the place a bit more each time are its people — rugged and rustic yet simple and helpful.
And if you are a girl travelling alone in this part of the country, expect men to stand up and insist you sit on their seat, old uncles to draw out weird maps with trembling hands and insist you follow the route mentioned, women to get chatty and enquire about your age and marital status and insist you get married soon and bus conductors to take the responsibility to get you a window seat in a packed bus!
However, after a teeth-chattering two-hour ride when I finally reached my hotel in Sawai Madhopur, the last bus for the evening safari was leaving and the manager told me that since I had not called up the hotel to book my seat for the safari all I could do that day was to hire a jeep and go to the fort. And within 15 minutes the jeep along with a very cheery Rajendra Singh was at my disposal. Ranthambhore Fort lies in the middle of the forest and as my driver for the day was also a forest guide, we stopped and spotted some yawning crocodiles, curious deer, flying peacocks and self-obsessed monkeys and when we finally reached the majestic ruins of the fort, the sun had mellowed  imparting a sombre look to the century-old stone walls and the birds had already begun singing a requiem for the dying day, and the vast forest overlooking the fort smelled of mist and gloom.
As we explored the multitudinous temples, mosques, palaces, cenotaphs and other ruins, Rajendra Singhji started narrating the tragic tale of Hammir Dev Chauhan — how the brave king of Ranthambhore fought and defeated Alauddin Khilji only to fall prey to the treachery of his own men. I felt as if I was caught in a time warp — maybe it was a cold evening like this when after a long war, Veer Hammir rode through the dense forest and reached his fort only to find all the women of his kingdom given up their lives in jauhar due to rumour spread by some of his own men regarding his death in the war and a heart-broken Hammir severed his head in front of Lord Shiva. Standing next to a pond of blood algae I could almost see blood oozing out from the severed head of Hammir and filling the ground. I shuddered.  And at this point Rajendra Singhji’s voice trailed and I could see his eyes moisten. 
As the last rays of sun bid adieu to Hammir’s beloved fort and winter chill wrapped its blanket over the forest I followed Singhji and trudged back to our jeep. The world suddenly seemed to have gone quiet as if to mourn the sad end of a king who survived great wars but succumbed to betrayals of his own men.
Next morning it was time to finally embark on the tiger trail! Ranthambhore has five zones for the tourists in the core area and tiger sightings are not rare. But unlike in summer, when tigers can be easily spotted near the watering holes, tracking one in the winter can be tricky.  Moreover it was an extended holiday and picnickers had flocked from all corners. I was not so much worried about spotting a tiger as I simply love the whole experience of spending time in a forest (although I was quietly confident of spotting one as I have been pretty lucky with tigers so far) but I was dreading the noisy picnic crowd.
There are two modes of transport for safaris in Ranthambhore — the 6-seater Gypsies and the 20-seater Canters and the seats are randomly allotted by a lucky draw and I was certainly not lucky enough to get a Gypsy that morning. When I boarded the Canter the only thing I wished was to ride sans the loud picnicker and screaming kids — and I got both. Not only there were people cracking jokes and shouting at the top of their voices, but there was a few months old crying baby! And to my horror his parents actually changed his diaper and nonchalantly flung the soiled diaper into the forest even after being repeatedly told by the forest guard not to throw even a piece of paper outside.
I was fuming but before I could react the Canter stopped. And I looked out “There! T-6 with its kill!” shouted the forest guard. And behind the shrubs I discerned the striped beast sitting majestically and in front was the bloody remains of its morning feast! What a sight! Of course if we wait for some time it would get up! But then most of the people in the Canter had lost interest in the tiger by then. Some even remarked, “Arey isse achcha to zoo mein dekh lengey”. I was scared that they might start playing antakshari if we waited there any longer when the baby started crying and that woke up another baby whom I had so far mistaken as a bundle of shawls and sweaters. This time it was too much for both the driver and the forest guard and they abandoned the plan of waiting for the tiger to get up. Because if things went as they were going, the tiger might not only get up but pounce on us!
So we made a move and a few dozens of deer, antelope, peacocks, wild boars, and monkeys later we spotted a sloth bear — one animal that is even more difficult to find in this forest than a tiger. So the Canter stopped and the bear started walking towards us munching leaves. I was keeping my fingers crossed that it would come close enough but more than that I was hoping that the babies doesn’t start screaming or the crowd does not try to pull any trick on the bear. Sloth bears can turn extremely violent if provoked. The forest guide was trying his best to keep the noise level low. Suddenly an affectionate voice: “nosey dikhao beta” ah of course I forgot the moms! Surely how can a doting mother give a damn about a sloth bear when her child has finally managed to identify his nose! And that was followed by ‘papa bolo papa’ and also the surreal ‘doggy kahan hay doggy’ (doggie? in the middle of the forest? WHY? I was almost suicidal by then). Of course after so much love the child started crying at the top of his voice shocking the sloth bear who made a face and walked away. For the first time in my life I absolutely hated kids and noses and doggies and was glad that the safari was over.
International travel channels have given this national park a ‘hip’ tag and thanks to the Canters, safaris have become affordable and as a result Ranthambhore has become to Delhites what Digha is to Kolkatans — a picnic spot. Tourism department is reaping good profit but what suffers is what a national park aims to protect — its wildlife.

Once upon on Sundays!

Finally the ordeal was over. But once I checked the wall clock and my heart sank. I was late. As I walked out, the road was almost empty and all I could hear was a dog barking at some distance. I clutched my bag and started running as fast as I could. I was still a few minutes away from my house when suddenly the eerie silence was shattered by a shrill sound....
MAHABHARAT...atha shree Mahabharat katha...aaa
All the television sets of our locality had started singing. And I am yet to reach home. “Why does this always have to happen with me? WHY? How can anyone even think of drawing oranges and apples (I was never too much into Cezanne really) while Arjun has already arrived for the swayamvar? ”
As I scurried towards my house I kept praying that I would make it before the Kaalchkra was over with its ‘Main samay hun’ flashback—they surely won’t show Arjun or Krishna before I reach the television set, I assured myself. These two breathtakingly handsome men were the best things that had happened to me in the seven long years of my life on this planet...well...apart from the gorgeous box of coloured chalks that ma got me last week.
Sunday was more than just a holiday then. The day dawned with Rangoli which was followed by some amazing serials like Ramayan, He-Man, Space City Sigma and Indradhanush, Bharat Ek Khoj, Chanakya, Mowgli, Ducktales, Talespin, Captain Vyom (which had the absolutely droolicious Milind Soman) and not to forget the never-ending Chandrakanta and its bushy eye-browed ‘Yakku’ Krur Singh. However, I missed most of these thanks to my drawing class (in those days Sunday morning drawing classes were mandatory for almost every child).
However, Sundays were not only about Doordarshan. After an early (but elaborate as would suit a Sunday) lunch it was playtime! Most of us did not have telephones but we knew how to make optimum use of something that we all had — lung power. Whoever was the first to arrive at the playground was supposed to go to each building and shout the names on top of his voice until the concerned person came down (and strangely enough, in most cases this ‘concerned’ person would only hear his name after you got scolded by almost all the grown-ups of that building for shouting so loudly). After the full cast assembled, it was time to take the big decision—would it be ‘ais pais’ (I Spy) or lock and key or hide and seek.
Usually it was hide and seek which would most often end with people leaving for their homes as the person who was supposed to find the rest, kept counting with his eyes shut. There were also times when we would keep hiding at one place, sitting still as a log, only to find out that the person who was supposed to find us had left as he was too sleepy from the counting part (well numbers do tend to have that effect on many!).
However, on the dull summer days, when it was too hot to play outdoors, it was time to turn creative. I would bury myself in crepe papers, marble papers, beads, wires, crayons and what not. And then, there were times when ma would sit with the Rabindra Rachanabali and read out poems or letters or short stories. During summer vacations, Doordarshan would have special programmes for children in the afternoons as well.
In the evening, we would again gather at the playground or the club house but with strict instructions to reach home by 7pm. As we grew up, the deadline extended and instead of ‘ais pais’, lock and key and hide-and-seek, the guys found their calling in football and cricket and we girls in antakshari, dumb charade and so on. But Sundays were never complete without a long adda session.
Winters were for badminton. And the sessions went on till the older group arrived and threw us off the court. At times, the kakimas and jethimas would also indulge in a game or two before starting with their late night adda sessions mostly revolving around para scandals!
Sundays were also for various cultural programmes (and there was some occasion or the other almost every month!) and rehearsals! We would finish our studies early and assemble at the club house. Usually it would be some dance-drama and the most crucial and difficult thing would be to land a role where you get to play a girl. As the guys were too ‘unruly’ and ‘unmusical’, they were not allowed to take part in these hallowed plays and so it was up to us girls to play the role of the male characters as well. All the taller girls were given male roles and I regretted my height.
Later, when we graduated to dramas, the boys also joined us in playing boys (as there were a mere one or two female characters in these dramas, only the most ‘beautiful and slim’ girls got to play ‘girls’ and I was neither!). And even while playing the male characters I would never get the lead roles as I was shorter than the real boys and again I regretted my height.
Another thing I eagerly waited for on Sundays was the hawker who sold puffed rice, door-to-door. Although he came across as the most uninteresting fellow selling one of the most uninteresting items under the sun, his jhola contained many hidden treasures and like a magician he would bring out small packets of badam chaak, tiler naru, chirer moa, aam shotto and other such delicacies!
However, everything was not that rosy. It can never be if you have parents who are obsessed with theatre. So at times my parents would make it their mission to spoil my Sunday by dragging me to the ‘Academy’ to watch people dressed in rags either shouting or crying hysterically over some kind of land dispute or labour strike.
I wanted to grow up, especially on such Sundays. So that there would be no drawing classes and home-work and theatre and I could watch all the cartoons, and play as long as I wanted, have long adda sessions and return home real late. So, I eventually I grew up. But by then it was too late. Doordarshan is now merely a shadow of what it used to be and among the 100+ other channels, none air anything special on Sundays. Instead of Sunday’s Disney Hour, now we have multiple cartoon channels, but Pokemons and Powerpuff Girls can never be a match for the good old classic Disney characters like the crazy Mr Scrooge McDuck and his three nephews Huey, Dewey and Louie or the clumsy pilot Launchpad McQuack or the adorable duo of Tom and Jerry.
As for the playground, it has been converted to a parking lot as the younger generation has no interest in any kind of games apart from video games. And as for the adda, it is mostly on Gchat or Facebook these days as we seldom get to see each other. But as for returning home late on Sundays, I guess I got lucky with that! I get to return home as late as 2 am these days. Well, I work on a night shift and I do not have a Sunday off!

The Doll House

It was a Sunday and the Hooghly River was blushing from the subtle flirting of the morning sun. I was taking a lazy stroll along the Strand Bank Road watching the city slowly wake up. Lined with old dilapidated buildings, time seems to have come to a standstill on this narrow stretch between Sovabazar and Kumortuli. I have walked this walk many times but never noticed what I did on this winter morning. Half hidden behind trees and other ruins, like a mirage, was a lone man standing with one arm raised amid a bunch of fragile women on an ornate terrace — all frozen in time.

The statues had something sad and eerie about them and it seemed they were beckoning me to their world. But there was no door!

I asked a man brushing his teeth on the street: “Dada oi baritaye jabo. Rasta ta...?”

“O putul bari jaben! Eito edikey,” he grinned flashing his lather-laden teeth.

Putul Bari! Doll House! Interesting I thought!

When I reached the half-ruined building I wasn’t much impressed. It looked like the other multitudinous dilapidated structures. I was not too sure if I should go in. I knocked on the door:

“Is there anybody there?’ he said.

But no one descended to the Traveller;

No head from the leaf-fringed sill

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes...,”

But, I was luckier than De La Mare’s traveller and the door was not locked! As I pushed the door it screeched and a strip of light made its way to the dark cobweb-laden wooden staircase. As if in a trance, I started climbing the stairs and it was then I realised how dilapidated it was. At certain points the wood was crumbling and with each step it screeched, piercing the dead silence of the house. But the sight

that greeted me when I reached the first floor almost took my breath away — a courtyard hemmed with elegant Corinthian arches oozing baroque grandeur. And the mellow chiaroscuro was lending it an ethereal charm.

As I stood mesmerised at the middle of the courtyard, I started feeling increasingly uncomfortable —as if there were people staring at me from all corners. I looked around. There was no one but a strange bearded man peering from each of the arch. There was something eerie about the face. It seemed he was keeping an eye on trespassers like me. I tried to shrug away the feeling and concentrated on the intricately designed figurines perched on the columns. Although the elaborate detailing in stucco and plaster has fallen prey to the ravages of time, I could discern almost all the popular members of the Hindu pantheon from amid thick layers of moss.

As I explored the ‘shadowiness of the still house’ I realised that the house, tagged as a heritage structure by the Kolkata Municipal Corporation, is not inhabited by ‘Phantom listeners’ but with real people! Makhan Lal Natta, an old man who owns a more than the 140-year-old Natta Company, acquired the property in 1978 and now the third floor of this grand mansion doubles as his office. The rest of the rooms are occupied by ‘tenants’.

It is hard to believe that this magnificent building which served as a shooting location for Roland Joffé’s City of Joy and which Desmond Doig tagged as ‘a perfect example of Calcutta rococo’ was built as a warehouse. The Hooghly River was navigable then and barges laden with spice, jute and such like would dock in the ports nearby. Hence several warehouses were built in this area to store imported goods. But why such an elaborately decorated structure for a warehouse? Well, the answer is surely lost in the mists of time.

Bollywood's 'poster boys' making a comeback!

It rarely happens that the ‘first look’ of a film poster creates such a buzz — getting 7,800 ‘likes’, 2087 ‘comments’ and 926 ‘shares’ on a social networking site. But Sanjay Leela Bhansali seems to have managed to do just that with the hand-painted posters of his upcoming film Rowdy Rathore. A tribute to over-the-top action films of the 80s, the Faulad Ki Aulad poster almost instantly brings back memories of walls plastered with faces of angry action heroes in bold red brush strokes and nubile beauties oozing pink paint. Magical, dreamy (and usually huge!), these posters were the mash up of advertising, art and storyboard depiction, all rolled into one canvas.

Bollywood’s poster art came into its own in the 1930s under the studio system that employed artists to paint posters and banners. And, after the decline of the studios, this art was created by a network of painters, photography studios and billboard workshops.

It all started with the publicity artists going through the trial screening and zeroing down on the aspects that need to be highlighted. However, in many cases they were just given albums of random production stills and from there they would choose the right images and do the sketches based on those. The sketches were sent to the producer for approval and then began the work of imbuing life to the final posters through oil paints or gouache.

Apart from highlighting the central theme of the movie, great deal of attention was paid to present the actors and actresses in new avatars. Another visual strategy employed by the Bollywood artists was dictated by the audience’s taste for paisa vasool entertainment and an item in every square inch is what masala posters and billboards offered. Not content with showing off just the lead pair, it incorporated the character actors, the villains and the vamps replete with the background dancers, and the spaces in-between filled with throbbing vignettes of a sleek car-chase scene or a sexy dance number or an action-packed climax scene.

The colour schemes of these posters were distinct (though not too different). If red signified revenge or anger, blue was synonymous with evil and pink portrayed love. But, it was the traditional style of mixing the colours and creating unique shades that made these posters alive. Often, New painting techniques were invented to bring out the right emotions and the posters more dramatic. One such was painting with a knife to add textures and contours to faces thereby making the heroes appear more macho and rugged. In the case of the poster of Jis Desh Mein Ganga Behti Hai, the artist creates a peculiar Van Gogh-like quality through its brush strokes in order to reproduce the delirium of elm trees on the Gangetic plain. The psychedelic Andy Warhol-like poster of Bobby and the pointillist style poster of Zehreela Insaan are few examples of some brilliant use of technique in film posters. Even M F Hussain, regarded as the Picasso of India, started his career in Bollywood where he used to paint film divas like Kanan Devi and Durga Khote on giant sizeposters along with painting film sets.

In the 1970’s, when a fleet of young directors and actors moved away from Bollywood ‘commercial cinema’ to explore radical new themes, a new kind of no-frills approach in posters came into being.These minimalist style posters of the ‘art house cinema’ were often created by graphic designers and illustrators from outside Bollywood and one such instance is the booklet cover for Ardh Satya by cartoonist Manjula Padmanabhan.

In 1980s new photo-reproduction technologies arrived in India that could blow up smaller artworks to the size of a 30-by-40-inch poster with superior quality. Painted posters started getting replaced by photo collages which had minimal work for the painters and scissors became more important than paint brushes. But, even this was short-lived.

In the early 1990’s, computer aided graphics slowly started replacing photo-collages and with Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge, one of the first movie posters to use digital artwork, becoming as massive a hit as it did, photoshop made the paintbrush almost obsolete. Most artists had to clean their brush and palettes of the garish colours almost overnight and take up odd jobs or diversify by producing portraits of politicians and election hoardings.


However, in true Bollywood ishtyle, within a decade, hand-painted posters made a comeback. And, from huge billboards to forgotten stacks of some dilapidated closed studio to the walls of some of the most high-profile art galleries, the journey was no less dramatic.

Considered nothing more than just a vehicle of film promotion in Bollywood, these posters became coveted art in cities like Paris, Toronto, London and Berlin and almost like a ripple effect, India too slowly began to appreciate these as art form and initiatives began to revive it.

However, young entrepreneurs like Hinesh Jethwani, founder of Indian Hippy, believe that the beauty of film poster art should not be limited to an elite few and hence Indian Hippy came to existence two years back. “We wanted to present this art once again in front of people, albeit on a fresh canvas and a fair price,” says Hinesh.

Besides a line-up of very innovative and funky fashion accessories and small furniture and décor items such as hand-painted chairs and coffee tables, Indian Hippy offers unique custom painted film posters that allow individuals to bring their fantasy to life on canvas.

“Very few film poster artists remain in India who hasn’t given up the paintbrush entirely and I am glad to have found a few of them. Working with them is a continuous challenge. These billboard and poster artists were used to painting on supersized canvases with large brushes,” says Hinesh.

For Nida Mahmood, fashion designer, graphic artist and co-founder of New India Bioscope Co, which is a design conglomerate set up to revive the art and the artists of hand-painted Bollywood posters, it all started in 2009 while making a few mixed media frames inspired from the posters of Deewar. “While talking to my my business partner Raul Chandra, we suddenly had the same question, where have all these poster artists disappeared? With immense difficulty and several dead ends, we managed to find a few poster artists in their late 70s and 80s and convinced them to pass on their art to our generations. Initially unwilling, sceptical and cynical they agreed once we set up a corpus for them. We took a risk and made an attempt to bring film poster art, away from its usual hoardings, onto wearable garments.”

Her brand offers two lines. The affordable line consists reprints of digital works inspired from poster art, while the collector’s line comprises objects that are hand-painted by poster artists and include trunk tables, chairs, hand-painted jackets, tote bags etc. “I do see a huge change in the modern thinking. People are appreciative of the bygone era. It is just about presenting it to them and making them aware. Kitsch is an all pervasive word, which is not defined by filling in a handful of colours to an image downloaded from the internet. I find myself bringing kitsch and poster art together and the results are phenomenal,” says Nida.

“With quirky being the mantra of the day I feel that there is nothing more interesting and colourful than hand-painted posters. The best part about them is the fact that they can be used on almost anything ranging from cell phone covers to bed sheets to garments and even shoes,” says accessory designer Rohan Arora.

Rohan’s shoe line Naya Daur, that walked the LFW Winter/Festive 2010 ramps, had old Hindi film posters hand-painted on khadi, and chicken legs leather and became an instant hit. He has three poster artists working for him. “They are all very old today and doing odd jobs due to the digitalization of the art. One of them was pulling rickshaws in College Street, one of them working as a waiter in a roadside restaurant on Moulali and the third one was selling baby toys at the Park Circus traffic signal. Initially, it was very difficult to get them and then convince them to paint the posters on shoes instead of large canvasses. But when they did, the response was amazing,” says Rohan.

An ardent fan of Bollywood, hand-painted posters has always fascinated Rohan: “I think digital techniques are no match to brush and canvas. Painted poster brings out a lot more emotion and is far more original than a digital print. Every poster has a story of its own. Even two posters from the same film are different. And I guess it is due to this that a lot of new film directors are going back to hand -painted posters today.”

A current bunch of contemporary artists are also taking inspiration from poster art. Sharmistha Dutta’s ‘Yaadon Ki Baaraat’, which concluded this week in Delhi, was a tribute to the lost art of hand-painted posters, while Vinita Dasgupta’s ‘Bollywood Reverie’, which is on in the national capital till December 18, is a collection of paintings inspired by Bollywood and the posters. “I have presented it in a manner similar to western pop art but the theme very much belongs to the mainstream. I have used mixed mediums,” says Vinita.

Be it old art work discovered by some enthusiastic 'relic hunter' or the ones smelling of fresh paints, be it customised posters starring at you as Don or wearing Gabber on your boots, be it digital prints of old hand-painted posters or incorporating posters in digital art, or film directors going old-school again, it seems the fate of hand-painted posters is taking quite an interesting turn break ke baad!